The group of goblin shamans finally arrived at the rear of the goblin army—a 150-member military unit that surrounded him. On that specific side, a small gap opened among the ranks. This was no lapse in defense; it was a calculated maneuver. Had Mark's eyes been able to see, it would have been clear: through this gap, the goblin shaman could see Mark, and Mark could see the goblin shaman. The shaman was attempting to maintain eye contact, a psychological move directed at a blind man.
The goblin shaman slightly shifted his staff, which was topped with a jagged violet crystal. It was a simple, subtle motion. However, Mark's heightened perception caught something undeniable: mana flowed from the goblin's body into the staff, and a spell was enacted there. Suddenly, Mark sensed something—three faint mana traces appeared and then immediately vanished. He heard skittering sounds nearby, not far at all. They were coming from the ground.
From various hiding spots—holes in the earth, crevices between rocks, and from behind the thick trunks of trees—three rats emerged. They approached the goblin shaman as if they were being pulled by invisible strings. The truth struck Mark like a physical blow. This was how they had been monitoring him.
Mind Control.
This wretched shaman had not just tamed these ordinary animals; he had completely overridden their consciousness. Through them, he had been able to watch Mark and establish a connection. While capturing other creatures is possible, it requires specific conditions. Here, the goblin shaman was D-rank; with enough willpower and time to invest, he could easily dominate a common animal.
As for the army surrounding Mark, the same logic applied. Because they were of the same race and the shaman's rank was vastly superior—there wasn't a single goblin above F rank in the vicinity—he was able to act as a central brain for the entire horde.
The skill itself was clearly low-level; the shaman likely couldn't dominate anyone even slightly weaker or equal to himself. But in this current situation, where everyone except the shaman was weak, it was a terrifyingly effective tool. The most cutting part of this realization was Mark's own negligence. He had perceived their movements through his senses, yet he had paid them no attention at all, blinded by his own arrogance. He had been looking for monsters, never realizing the small animals beneath his feet were the very eyes of his enemy.
Despite the suffocating encirclement, the blow never came. The hundred-headed hydra of the goblin army remained eerily frozen, their weapons held in a state of murderous patience. As the full weight of his own negligence settled in, a searing wave of fury ignited in Mark's chest. He felt played. Exposed.
Through his Blind Sense, Mark "looked" toward the gap in the ranks. While his sensory array was usually poor at reading subtle facial expressions, the Goblin Shaman was grinning so widely, so grotesquely, that the distortion of its facial muscles pulsed clearly through the vibrations in the air. There was no mistaking that expression.
It was a performance. The Shaman had orchestrated the entire encirclement so that if Mark had eyes, he would be forced to stare directly into that mocking, jagged smile. The horde hadn't attacked because they were waiting for their master's cue—waiting for the finale of the Shaman's masterpiece.
By calling the rats to its feet, the Shaman wasn't just demonstrating power; it was gloating. It wanted Mark to know exactly how it had dismantled his perceived safety. The Shaman stared at him now, not as a threat to be neutralized, but as a trapped prey that had finally fallen into a meticulously crafted pit after months of desperate running. It was the gaze of a victor savoring the moment before the slaughter.
Blinded by fury, Mark struggled to formulate a coherent plan. The most logical path was simple: kill the Shaman. Without its central brain, the horde would devolve into a mindless, disorganized mob. But execution was a nightmare. He couldn't close the distance, and a standard Stone Bullet would likely shatter harmlessly against the towering shields of the Goblin Guardians. Even his trump card, Stone Bullet 2.0, required too much casting time—time the Shaman wouldn't give him. Even if he fired, a Guardian would surely sacrifice its life to act as a meat shield for its master.
As the seconds ticked by, Mark realized the Shaman's hesitation wasn't just for show. Mana began to swirl around the creature in a complex, rhythmic pattern. A spell was being woven. Mark could only track the energy as it reached its peak and finally snapped.
Suddenly, a wave of lethargy washed over him. His mana felt sluggish, resisting his command as if it had turned into lead. It was a curse—a multi-layered weakening spell designed to disrupt mana control. But that was only the secondary effect. The Shaman had poured its greatest effort into the primary curse, a high-level spell meant to strip a warrior of their most precious asset.
Blindness.
The irony was so sharp it cut deeper than any blade. The Shaman had expended a massive amount of mana to "blind" a man who had lived in total darkness for months. For Mark, the spell was mechanically useless, yet the emotional weight of the insult was unbearable.
"You cursed goblin!" Mark roared, his voice tearing through the stifling silence. "Are you mocking me? Do these eyes look like they work to you?! You'll pay for this insult!"
The Shaman didn't understand the words, but it saw its prey trembling, shouting in what appeared to be a terminal lapse of sanity under the weight of the curse. To the Shaman, the scene was perfect. The prey was broken, weakened, and "blinded." It was time for the grand finale.